


a faint line

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Clint Barton Feels, Deaf Clint Barton, First Kiss, Ghost Natasha Romanov, Hurt, M/M, Moving On, Natasha Romanov Feels, Past Character Death, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sad, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 10:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20095633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The first time he sees her is on the battlefield.





	a faint line

**Author's Note:**

> First Square: Ghost AU - no one said the ghost had to be Clint or Bucky.

The first time he sees her is on the battlefield.

It’s the final fight against Thanos and Bucky’s gripping his gun like a lifeline, just aiming at whatever comes close and shooting the hell out of it. He’s seen a lot - a _lot_ of weird shit, from the guy called Scott turning into a giant and having to stab alien dogs, and it hasn’t made him feel any better about what’s going on in front of him. The spider kid’s got the Infinity Gauntlet and he’s running, and Bucky tries to cover him. He runs out of ammo near the end, grabs one of the things by the face with his vibranium arm and _wrenches_.

The battle goes on, and so does Bucky, until the enemy fades to dust and they’re left the winners.

He’s staring at Tony Stark dying when he sees a flash of red hair.

She’s just standing in the middle of the battlefield, without a speck of blood or grime on her. Bucky watches as she walks slowly towards Tony, leans in between Pepper Potts and Peter and says something that he can’t hear from this distance. She’s crying, too, stray tears on her face as his breathing slows down and stops.

No one seems to notice her, but it seems unimportant in the wake of the corpse on the battlefield.

The second time he sees her, he’s getting checked over by Sam.

Bucky’s not a fan of letting people poke and prod him, but when Sam points at the couch and springs out a medical kit, he acquiesces without complaint. Sam and he are at that point where Bucky could admit to a certain sense of safety, their banter evolving into an easy friendship where it’s okay to let him see the softer parts of Bucky. He doesn’t know where Steve’s gone. Sam’s grumbling something about stupid supersoldiers and advanced healing as he swipes at a healing cut on Bucky’s leg.

He sees the red hair again when he looks out the window, sees her following a figure in black. They’re heading into the woods, Barton a few meters in front as he pulls the hood of his suit over his head. Bucky watches them disappear into the trees and wonders what they’re doing.

“We’ve got funerals coming up, by the way,” Sam says. “Your choice whether you want to come, man.”

“Whose?”

“Tony, Vision, Thor’s brother, some girl named Gamora,” Sam answers. “Got some deaths to catch up with. Thought we’d have one for Natasha, but apparently she didn’t want one, wrote it in her will.”

Bucky turns to him. “Natalia’s dead?”

“No one told you? ‘s how they got the Soul Stone,” Sam says, and his gaze is distant, sad. They’d been close. Bucky still remembers them bickering at each other over Steve’s voice on the video calls to Wakanda. “You knew her from the Red Room, right? I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, thinks about red hair and a sad smile.

The third time he sees her, Steve’s returning the Infinity Stones.

He hugs Bucky in his bulky arms that still don’t line up with the memories in Bucky’s head, smiles at him even though there’s something _off_ about it. Whatever’s happened in the last five years, it’s changed him. Bucky doesn’t know. It feels like all the fight and life, everything that made him _Steve_ has been scooped out and replaced with something else.

“Go ahead,” he says when he sees the elderly man sitting on the bench. Sam looks at Bucky questioningly and Bucky smiles, feels it fake on his lips. Sam goes anyway, and Bucky stays where he is because this isn’t about him. He looks around instead.

Natasha’s standing a few steps away, looking out at the water.

She’s still wearing the same thing she was when he saw her the first time, black suit and braid loose, wisps of red with gold edges escaping from their ties. She’s watching Steve too, and Bucky joins her, stands at her shoulder and thinks about how he wasn’t enough for Steve this time, not by himself.

“If you and Tony were still here, would he have stayed?”

Natasha looks at him then, green eyes catching the light. “I don’t know,” she says, and it’s _honest,_ so it’s enough. Sam looks back at him nervously, shield in his hands, and Bucky smiles for real this time. Sam deserves it.

The fourth time she seeks him out.

He’s sitting on a couch in the new Avengers compound, trying to work the new phone Shuri had sent him. She’s subscribed him to a bunch of things he doesn’t care about, and he’s only managed to delete three of the five social media accounts she’s made. He should’ve just bought one from a store, but it’s hard with the world recovering from the Snap.

Natasha sits down in an armchair across from him, silent as always, with the kind of catlike grace that Bucky had taught her a lifetime ago. He raises his eyes to her, watches the emotions flit over her face. They’re not visible enough to read, just to notice, and he waits for her to speak.

“Why can’t anyone else see me?”

“Probably because you’re dead,” Bucky says.

“I know that,” Natasha says. “Why can _you_ see me, then?”

“My ma used to say that our great-gran was a witch,” Bucky answers, shrugs. He doesn’t remember it that well, sometimes hears echoes of her voice in the recesses in his mind. Doesn’t know if it’s the truth or not. “Maybe I’m dead too and I just don’t know it yet.”

She looks at him thoughtfully for a second and then shakes her head, smiles very soft. “You’re more alive now than you ever were, James.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says.

The fifth time, she’s just sitting on his motorbike.

He’s just checking it over, making sure the seller didn’t screw him. Natasha doesn’t get in the way, folds her legs up neatly when he needs to check a scratch on the exhaust. She doesn’t say anything, either, just watches him quietly as he tinkers with it. It’s what he expected for the price, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need maintenance. And the superheroes tend to leave him alone when he’s in the giant garage the building houses.

Bucky doesn’t consider himself to be one of them, even if they think he is.

“That’s the wrong coolant,” she says when he picks it up. He reads the label, confirms it’s exactly what he was looking for and then looks back at her. “Use the one with the red label,” she adds.

“Right,” he says. Snorts.

He uses the red label one, though. While he’s changing it, fingers drag through his hair lightly. He doesn’t pay much heed to it, lets Natasha pick at it curiously. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be able to touch people, he’s pretty sure, but she’s doing it anyway. When he finishes up with the motorcycle she’s pulled his hair into an elegant updo, tied it off with the hairband that was holding her braid in place.

“You havin’ fun there?”

“Perhaps,” she says.

“Why are you here, Natalia?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and for the first time since he met that tiny little redheaded girl in the Russian winter, she sounds _lost_.

The first time he talks to Clint, it’s only for a second.

Natasha doesn’t seem to be tethered to him in particular - he watches her join Sam on runs around the grounds, although she doesn’t get out of breath the way their new Captain America does. Sam invites him a couple of times but Bucky brushes him off, watches from the window instead. He doesn’t really need to do cardio anymore.

Natasha also follows Barton around.

Bucky remembers him, but they haven’t spoken. Clint’s like a shadow within the compound - he’s _here,_ there’s evidence of him around, and yet it’s a miracle to even catch a glimpse of blond mohawk and messy tattoos out of the corner of his eye. He jumps half a mile when a hand reaches around him to grab the coffeepot, silent as the grave.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky mutters when he realizes he’s knocked over his own drink.

“Sorry,” Clint says, and Bucky looks up, sees him drinking out of the pot. The shadows under his eyes should have its own postcode, they’re that large. He chugs the entirety of what’s left in the coffeepot and then sets it down with a thump.

“It’s okay,” Bucky answers, a little cautiously.

Clint doesn’t say anything else, just lifts his chin like he’s listening for something, and Bucky notices he’s wearing black hearing aids that are nearly impossible to see. Bucky distinctly remembers purple ones from the airport, and he’s about to ask about the abrupt fashion change when Clint turns around and exits without a single word.

Natasha’s watching him leave, sitting on a stool beside Bucky.

She looks troubled, somehow.

The second time, he’s researching.

“Google says there’s a few reasons why the dead hang around,” he informs Natasha. She snorts at him, settles her booted feet in his lap. They’re cold, but not heavy in the way his eyes insist they should be. Bucky goes back to looking at the screen in front of him. The article isn’t very informative, and it seems to be from the viewpoint of someone who _wants_ to be haunted by a spirit, but it’s the best he’s got.

“You’re not where you died, so it ain’t that you’re hauntin’ that spot,” Bucky says. “Don’t think anyone here plays with ouija boards, that’s out. You’re not haunting someone specifically, so it’s not that.”

He pushes her feet off, gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Natasha follows him and he looks in the fridge, thinks about the days when he’d barely had an IV line to keep him going. Eventually he ends up rummaging in the pantry for snack foods, comes out with a bag of candies. Bucky barely notices Clint enter the room again, only picks up on it when the couch creaks behind him. He hopes he hadn’t left the thing about ghosts up.

Bucky glances out of the corner of his eye, sees Clint sprawled out, all legs and tightly coiled muscle hidden under jeans and a grey shirt that’s seen better days. It’s- he’s _curious,_ in a way he isn’t with the other people in the compound.

“He likes the grape ones,” Natasha says.

He’s not expecting it to _work,_ but when Clint opens his eyes and takes in the purple candy being offered to him, there’s a tiny little glimmer of a smile that makes Bucky’s heart do funny things.

“Thanks,” Clint says.

The third time, he doesn’t intentionally seek Clint out, but it happens anyway.

“Does it ever get… too much, for you?”

Clint laughs without any humour, helps Bucky up onto the beam with one hand. They’re high up, making use of the large ceilings in the gym. There’s some kind of press tour - people toting cameras around and marveling at the home of the Avengers. Bucky’s not a big fan of having people babbling at him asking questions.

“All the time,” Clint answers easily. “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, right?”

They sit in silence, long enough that Natasha sits down on the floor underneath them like she’s waiting, maybe giving them privacy. Bucky lets his gaze run over Clint’s forearm, the inked snake’s jaws open like it’s about to strike. Violent. Dangerous. When he raises his eyes, Clint’s looking at the vibranium arm pointedly. Bucky turns his eyes away.

“I don’t feel like a hero,” he says.

“Me either,” Clint answers. “Been here for years, too.”

“Does it get any better?”

Clint lets out a bark of laughter. He leans to the side and lays his hand over Bucky’s, pats him and Bucky’s a little surprised at how _cold _Clint feels. It’s weird, considering Natasha’s dead and Bucky was frozen off and on for seventy years, that Clint is the cold one.

“No, it gets _worse,_” Clint says with clear amusement. “But hey. Whatever. You ever played Mario Kart?”

The fourth time, it’s when the Avengers are called out.

It’s political, some public showing where they’re expected to mingle and make nice. Bucky doesn’t like the idea of this - they’re not celebrities, they’re just here to fight off whatever madness comes next. Sam’s uncomfortable with it too, and he ends up in the familiar grey and red instead of the white, red and blue that Bucky knows is in his closet. Bucky leans back in his seat and watches Natasha perch on the arm of Clint’s chair, moves a strand of hair that’s out of place on his head. Clint doesn’t seem to notice.

“-Wanda, you still got that red coat? Great. Uh, Clint?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, like he’s only half-paying attention to Bruce.

“You okay with staying here?”

Bruce looks kind of - somewhere between sympathetic and _pained,_ Bucky doesn’t know. Why the hell don’t they want Clint with them? Clint himself doesn’t seem to care, just kicks his boots up onto the desk and nearly dislodges Natasha as he shrugs, agrees to it without the slightest argument. When he looks around no one else is arguing, either, and he gives Natasha a raised eyebrow.

She looks down at her hands, doesn’t do anything.

“Can I stay too? I’m not good for public morale, anyway,” Bucky says, cringes a little when everyone turns to him.

Bruce’s face softens. He thinks it's because of anxiety. “Sure, Bucky.”

“We’re watching the Alien trilogy,” Clint says, and his eyes are alight with interest in a way they haven’t been since everyone was called into the meeting room. “Marathon time, let’s go, Barnes.”

Bucky goes.

He realizes later that he hadn’t done it because he doesn’t like these stupid public appearances. He’d done it because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Clint alone after the not-so-subtle rejection from the others. He ignores the tiny smile on Natasha’s face as she seats herself in an old armchair and watches them sit shoulder-to-shoulder, Clint edging a little closer after a while like he’s trying to get close.

The fifth time, they’re organizing a monument in Natasha’s name.

It’s a monstrosity, some fifty feet of ridiculous black and white marble. Natasha laughs at the design for it and then they start talking about everyone going, making a speech about her one by one. Wanda starts writing one on the spot, but Bucky’s too busy watching Clint head out the glass door with a bang.

He follows.

“I’m not going,” Clint says, hands clenched tight on the balcony. “I can’t. I won’t.”

Even in the moonlight Bucky can see how white his knuckles are. He takes a step closer, shuts the door behind him so the chatter is muffled. There are crickets chirping and he can see Natasha out of the corner of his eye, a flash of red hair and black leather. He can’t see what expression Clint is making, but he can see the tremors, feels his heart ache in sympathy.

He takes a step closer, reaches out to touch Clint’s back. His fingers connect with worn-soft cotton and the warmth of Clint’s skin.

“I know losing her is horrible, but-” Bucky starts, but he stops the minute he sees the anger flickering in Clint’s eyes when he looks back at Bucky. It’s _dangerous,_ the kind of look that would have him drawing his gun in any other situation. He feels like he should have a knife to his throat, that’s the kind of energy Clint is radiating right now. Bucky was prepared for sadness, for despair and depression and a man missing his best friend.

He doesn’t know what to do with _this._

“She _left _me,” Clint snarls.

“Clint, I-”

“She died and I’m still stuck here, paying for the shit no one but _she _would forgive me for,” Clint says, venom dripping from his words. “She sacrifices herself and that’s it! She’s dead.”

“Wh-”

“She probably didn’t even think about it. So busy being a __hero__. She dies and I get to think about how she died for _me,_ and I have to carry that shit around for the rest of my _life _now. Everyone talks about how noble her sacrifice was. The great Black Widow, Saviour of the Snapped. You know what I get?”

Clint’s leaning in now, his nose nearly brushing Bucky’s. It’s threatening, somehow worse than having a gun pointed at his head. Bucky doesn’t know what the answer is here. He's not sure there _is _an answer. He’s fairly sure he looks like a deer in the headlights.

“I get people stopping me on the street, saying that it should’ve been _me,_” Clint says, low and dangerous.

Bucky’s heart stops.

Clint pulls away, looks to the side like he’s disgusted. Whether it’s by himself, Natasha, or the general public and their opinions, Bucky doesn’t know.

“She was goddamn selfish,” Clint says bitterly. “It’s _easy _to die.”

They sit together, once Clint’s disappeared into the trees.

Bucky lets him go, knows nothing good will come from chasing him down when he doesn’t want to be found. He hopes Clint will come back in his own time. It’s a matter of faith, and while Bucky’s lost faith in any sort of higher being he has faith in the lonely tattooed superhero that’s grieving for his best friend and trying to recover on his own.

“I never thought about it,” Natasha says later, and she sounds lost again. “I was so obsessed with bringing everyone back - it had been five _years,_ and he still was out there hurting and I _knew _but I let him go because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“You abandoned him,” Bucky says. “You didn’t mean to, but you did.”

“I didn’t think anyone would care about what he did as Ronin,” she says, the anxiety bleeding through her voice. Bucky’s chest hurts. “We’re a family. He- he never judged me on my worst mistakes. I just- I didn’t want him to _die._”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that. There’s not anything he can say, not really. Natasha gets up and walks away, and he sees her drop to her knees on the grass but pretends he doesn’t, looks up to watch the clouds turn grey and heavy.

Clint shows up on his own the next day.

The mattress dips under his weight and Bucky doesn’t turn his head, just curls his fingers around Clint’s cold shoulder when he comes close. He doesn’t know where Natasha is, doesn’t really care right now. Like Clint, he’s patient enough to wait for her to come back. Clint presses his cheek against Bucky’s arm and his stubble’s scraping along the skin but it’s okay.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Clint says, subdued.

“Sounded like that had been building up for a while,” Bucky answers. “You okay?”

“Not really,” Clint says, sighs warm against Bucky’s shoulder. “Still shouldn’t have gone off on you like that, you didn’t deserve it. You’re a really decent person, Barnes.”

“Apology accepted,” Bucky murmurs, rubs his fingertips over Clint’s skin. “I’m just doin’ the right thing, though. Don’t compliment me for the bare minimum.”

“They’re scared of me,” Clint says. He’s talking about the Avengers. “I’m a murderer. I was practically a serial killer.”

“Did you kill good people?”

“No,” Clint answers.

“I killed good people,” Bucky says, looks up at the ceiling. “Kind people. People who deserved better. So did Wanda. So did Banner, when he was just the Hulk. Everyone’s done bad things. They shouldn’t be isolating you for it. People fuck up. Clint, you’re _good,_ and you’re gorgeous and funny and smart, and even if you went off the rails a little you’re just a person. It happens and we grow from it.”

Clint sits up then, leans over and kisses him.

“This isn’t just because you’re nice to me,” he murmurs against Bucky’s mouth before he gets a hand in Bucky’s hair and leans in again.

Bucky’s relieved, but if he’s honest he’d take whatever reason Clint gave him as long as he gets this.

Natasha doesn’t appear that morning.

She shows up a few days later, when he’s filling up his mug with coffee.

Bucky finishes pouring it, makes another for Clint in a purple mug. Natasha notices, her eyes sliding over it far too casual to be genuine. She watches him take a sip with the kind of single-minded focus that only belongs to a person trying to avoid their own mind, and Bucky wonders when he became her guide. Probably that day on the battlefield.

She looks - she looks like shit, even with how perfect she is. Her expression hasn’t changed, and it’s not like she can develop shadows under her eyes or dirt on her clothes, but she looks _bad._ Clint’s outburst the other night had _hurt _her, Bucky knows. He doesn’t think Clint was entirely wrong, though, and maybe there’s something there.

“The other reason,” Bucky says. “The other reason someone can’t move on.”

Natasha doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Unfinished business,” he says. “Something you need to do first.”

“Clint,” she says, almost inaudible.

“Clint,” Bucky agrees.

She looks out the window, out at the trees. From here they’re almost ominous, skeletal branches hidden under dry, almost-dead leaves. Clint’s out there, somewhere, doing whatever it is he does out there, and Natasha stands up, looks back at Bucky with anxiety flickering on her face.

“You’re coming too,” she says, and it’s not _quite _a question.

She’s scared.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, sets down the mug.

Clint’s leaning against a tree with a cigarette in his fingers when they find him.

Bucky watches the smoke twist soft around his face, like some ethereal creature that Clint’s attracted just by existing, like he has his own gravitational pull that draws in everything. The everything seems to include Bucky too, surprisingly, but he’s not here for himself this time. Clint’s blue eyes flick from his boots slowly up to his face, expression turning soft when he reaches Bucky’s face.

It’s enough that he knows he has to do this.

“We need to talk.”

There’s a flicker of anger, the ghost of the rage that had shown up earlier. Then Clint flicks the cigarette to the ground, grinds it under his heel and gives Bucky an assessing look. He bites his lip, leans back against the rough bark again. “You know something I don’t.”

“Not exactly,” Bucky says, looks to the side where Natasha’s standing. She takes one step closer to Clint, doesn’t even look at Bucky. The trees rustle above them, loud amongst the silence of everything else. It’s like the forest is dead, as dead as the woman approaching her closest companion with outstretched fingers and fear in her eyes.

There’s a long, heavy pause and then Bucky looks back at Clint, who’s staring at Natasha with wide, wide eyes.

“Clint,” Natasha says.

Clint makes a noise like he’s been shot clean through the chest, grasps at his chest like he has. His nails drag across the cotton hard and painful and Natasha reaches forward with a shaking hand, pulls his hands off. He looks down at their joined fingers, looks back up at her. It’s so _vulnerable,_ so open and hurting that Bucky hurts as well from seeing it.

“You’re here,” Clint whispers. “Why are you _here?_”

“I needed to talk to you,” she answers.

Clint doesn’t say anything else, just stares at her.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry, Clint.”

Bucky leaves them to it, then.

Natasha appears for the last time when he’s standing in a clearing, looking up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

He’s been here for a stretch of time he’s forgotten to keep track of, although he’d guess it’s some part of the afternoon. It had seemed wrong, somehow, to just go back to the compound and leave, but it didn’t feel right to stay either. He hears her footsteps before he sees her, turns around to see her standing there alone.

She looks _peaceful,_ somehow, and Bucky’s glad.

“Thank you, James,” she says. “For everything. I think that’s- I think it’ll be okay now.”

“I’m happy for you,” he says and means it, and she steps forward and pulls him into an embrace. He sets his fingers against the soft curve of her spine and closes his eyes, just briefly. She holds him close and sighs quietly. It’s got more emotion than either of them know how to put into words. “I won’t miss your judgement in the morning,” he adds when the feelings threaten to claw their way out of his chest.

“Stop wearing Captain America underpants, then,” she orders him. Then she smiles, very small and proud. “You’re a good man. Don’t change.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“I know you will,” she says, and then she’s gone.

Bucky smells the rain before the water hits his skin, the noise filling the silence where Natasha had been. Wonders what’s going to happen next.

“I’m leaving,” Clint says, abrupt.

Bucky looks up slowly, lowers the phone in his hand and takes in Clint. He’s shifting on his feet like the floor’s too hot to stand on, almost nervously, and Bucky takes in the duffel over his shoulder, the purple sunglasses on his head. There’s a thin silver chain around his neck, with a tiny spider linked on it. He remembers seeing something similar, once, except it was an arrow instead, and on a different person.

Clint looks lighter, like some of the weight holding him down is gone.

“Where you goin’?”

“I don’t know,” Clint answers. “Thought I’d make it up as I go. Take a break, see some sights. ‘s not like I’m doing any good here, might as well go find myself. Maybe help some people.”

Recovery. Bucky nods. “Sounds good.”

Clint looks relieved for a second, then bites his lip. “I know I shouldn’t- I don’t expect you to wait for me, or anything, but I was hoping you’d let me take you out on a real date sometime.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Or I could, you know. Come with you.”

Clint looks taken off-balance by that, and his eyes are wide and so very blue in the morning sun. Bucky’s worried he’s said the wrong thing, for a second, and then Clint laughs and drops the bag with a thump and presses his smile against Bucky’s lips.

“God, yes. Please,” Clint says, quiet and delighted, and he sounds _happy _for the first time since Bucky met him.


End file.
